Race's diary
by The Omniscient Bookseller
Summary: The time of the strike from Race's point of view. I've given up on the newsie dialect. Forgive me.
1. Day 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the title. Besides, you can't sue me. I'm too young. As if you'd actually want to sue me, that is….

Today was awful. Snipeshooter stole my last cigar this morning. I could kill that kid sometimes. There was a terrible headline this morning, but a bit of creativity sold a reasonably amount of papers. Some new kid showed up today; David, I think his name was. He's a bit strange- uses all these fancy words, but knows almost nothing. Not cut out to be a newsie if you ask me, but of course no one did.

I'm getting low on money, too. That's a bit of an understatement. I'm broke. I decided to head straight for the tracks after selling today. Yesterday, I managed to get a tip- a good on, if I was any judge- off one of the guys, I and was pretty excited. I'd even sold Weasel on the idea, so I had the money that would've been this morning's papers to squander. Fat lot of good it did me. I lost nearly everything I had on that tip, and the remainder trying to get a bit back. 

Specs started a game of poker before we went to sleep tonight. I was ready to kill him.


	2. Day 2

I don't own anything except…except…Teach! Teach is mine! Yay! I own somebody! *does a little happy dance which earns very strange looks from the parental units* er…yah. So don't sue me.

My entire morning was taken up with worrying about what Weasel was going to do to me when I couldn't pay back his loan on yesterday's papers. I figured I'd have to get one of the other boys to buy mine for me. That is, assuming I had enough money. Well, Jack owed me two bits, didn't he? If he had it, that would get me 50 papers. 

Well, I thought it would get me 50 papers. When I got to the Distribution Center, though, I found all the guys sitting on the steps, engaged in a heated discussion on a topic I couldn't manage to make out. 

Flips pulled me aside and explained. The World's price had been raised- 60 cents a hundred. 60 cents? How the hell was I going to manage that? But what choice did we have? Jack, though, apparently thought we had several. And he picked one, and wouldn't back off. 

Which is why I'm walking back to the Lodging House, alone, at ten o'clock at night. Jack decided that we should stand up to Pulitzer. How? We should go on strike. Refuse to sell until they lowered the price- or until we starved, that is. And not just us, either. All of New York, if the other boys did as well as I did. 

I went to Midtown to spread the news of the strike and ask them to join us. I love Midtown; I stayed there for about a year before I came to Jack's band. Their leader, Teacher, is one of my best friends- and probably the strangest newsie alive. He is short and wiry, with a long pigtail and a staunch British accent. He almost never laughs, but is always smiling, and watches out for his boys like he was their father. I don't think he's ever lost his temper and somehow doubt that he knows how to fight. And he plays a damn good game of poker. Not quite as good as mine, though.

Which is half the reason I'm in such a good mood.


	3. Day 3

I don't own it!

I was in the middle of a game of poker- and winning, too- when Jack arrived with the news that Spot wouldn't have anything to do with the strike. Thinks we aren't serious. "Can you imagine that?!" Yeah, sure as hell I can. I suggested that we should ease off a little, maybe take a step back and think about this. Bad move. I practically got my head bitten off. I mean, it's only one tenth of a cent! Are we really going to stop Joseph Pulitzer, the man who basically runs this city? Jack certainly thinks so. Spot doesn't. And me? I'm not exactly sure.


	4. Day 4

This is not mine, this is not mine, this is not mine, this is a chair….. (Don't ask. Just….don't.)

You'd think I was a terrible fighter to look at me. It's true, I used to be, but since Snoddy joined and taught us all a bit, I can defend myself in a pinch. I mostly use tricks, considering that my brute force never had a chance at getting me anywhere. Still, if my heart was a horse, I would've won a fair bit of money this morning.

It started out as a nice, pleasant soaking of the scabs. I know it's necessary, but I just wish that someone else could do it. I never was one for fighting, and I don't think I ever will be. I'm more of a stand-on-the-sidelines-and-run-for-the-doctor-when-necessary kind of a guy. Anyway, in the middle someone (I've got money on Weasel) had the bright idea to call the bulls. Things went downhill from there. 

Suddenly, the guy chasing me ducked as a blurred form swung overhead. I did a double take, but I'd been right the first time- it was Spot! I don't think I've ever been that glad to see someone in my life. Alright, so that's an exaggeration. But still. 

Spot. There's something bothering him, I can tell. I'm better friends with him than Jack is, and I know he's been depressed lately. I don't have to be Teacher (see bottom) to know that something's wrong. He's just sitting there, lost in his own thoughts. Not nearly as sure of himself as usual. 

I hope he'll tell me.

Note: I had a lovely little Teacher fic, but I've lost it, so I will explain the he is notorious for being unusually observant- he always knows everyone's thoughts and feelings and opinions and helps them sort out problems. Make more sense now?


	5. Day 5

Star light/ star bright/ first star I see tonight/ I wish I may/ I wish I might/ have this wish I wish tonight. 

__

I wish I owned Newsies………

So there's going to be a rally. Everyone crammed together at Irving Hall. I hope Jack knows what he's doing, but I trust him. I'd rather he make the decisions, anyway. I guess I'm just not the leader type.

Spot's was in one of his moods again tonight. He hadn't tried to bring it up, and wouldn't answer my questions. I decided I had to do something, so I went over and asked him straight out what was wrong. He didn't tell me anything. Really, what did I expect? This is Spot Conlon I'm talking to. Did I really believe that he would confide in me? He'd rather waste away, locked inside himself.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. How depressed he was, wary, withdrawn. The time he would spend alone on the roof or in the bathroom. The long sleeved shirts. How he kept his hands in his pockets all the time. My stomach sank.

"Spot. Let me see your hands." I knew from the look in his eyes that I was right. Still, I prayed that I'd made some mistake, that something in my figuring was wrong. 

But there they were, undeniable, in front of my eyes. Scars. Got, there were so many of them. I was in shock. I didn't know if I wanted to cry or be sick or hit him….

I hugged him. I can't really remember what I did, but I know he wouldn't tell me anything. My mind was reeling. I couldn't accept this, I couldn't understand.

But now that I think about it, I can understand. Not why he did it, I doubt I'll ever understand that, but I think I understand how he could do it.

After all, this is Spot Conlon. 


	6. Day 6

__

This is the movie you wanted to own, do you honestly think that you can/ All you are doing is writing fanfiction and why can't you just get that straight?/ This isn't something of yours/ So won't you please just stop dreaming/ All you can do is pretend and that gets rather old/ Disney/ owns it all…..

Heh. Sorry. Rhymes make my head hurt at this hour of the night…..I mean, morning.

Damn, I need a cigar. Maybe I'm going to die. It wouldn't surprise me. I've got the worst headache from here to Alaska. Not to mention the fact that every part of my body I've got a name for hurts. 

I can't believe they just threw us in jail! Alright, so I did know they could do something like this. I was just hoping they wouldn't. 

Well, the rally was quite a success. I thought I saw Teacher- he'd said he was coming- but it wouldn't surprise me if the police walked right by him. He doest seem much like a newsie. 

Spot's watching me from across the room. He hasn't looked away in at least a minute. I can see him running his fingers absently over the scars on his wrists. Maybe he's worried that I'll tell someone. 

He realizes that I'm looking at him, grins, lets his hands drop to his sides, and looks away.

Spot Conlon doesn't just look away. Spot Conlon asks you what you're staring at, or glares you down. Or at least meets your gaze. _Spot Conlon doesn't just look away!_

I don't know who I'm more worried about, him or Jack. I wonder what will happen to the strike if they keep him out. I don't want to see Spot take over. Oh, he'd do it, he'd feel it was his duty, but if he takes on all that responsibility, I'm honestly afraid of what he'll do to himself. I can't tell him to stop. He wouldn't listen.

It's strange, this worrying about other people. I never did before, it was fend for yourself, each on his own. 

I think I can see why some prefer it that way. 


	7. Day 7

Heeey! I updated, finally. I haven't lost inspiration for this fic altogether! I just don't exactly know what I should do with it.*wanders away*  
  
Not mine.  
  
It's cold out here for July. Looks like it's about to start raining again. Everything around here seems so hopeless, so despondent. I'm beginning to wonder if it's all worth it.  
  
I mean, look at us. We're starving. We don't have enough money for food, never mind a place to sleep. And there's the choice-starve or get soaked.  
  
It cost over $100 to get us all free, I think. $5.00 for every person. My mathematics aren't that great, though, and they wouldn't tell me how much it was.  
  
The worst part of it, though, was what happened to Jack. They said they'd put him in the refuge for four years or something. A lot of us have been in there. Some come back. Most don't. They didn't take him to the refuge, though. I don't know where he went. David went after him; he told us to meet him at the square. It's been, hell, I don't know, a few hours. Mush went to take Les home, and Boots had enough money for a bed, but the others are sitting on the Lodging House steps, just waiting. I've been pacing around the statue for maybe five minutes, never mind that it's started raining. I'll be sleeping out here anyway, what difference does it make?  
  
See, Jack has to come back. We need him. There's something about him that makes you believe what he says, do what he wants. He's the whole reason why we're all willing to suffer through this. He doesn't only lead the strike, he is the strike. He keeps us going. We'll win, we know. There's no way you can be around him and not think so. We all live through the hardship because he can lead us to triumph. Everything will be fine when Jack comes back.  
  
  
  
Everything will be fine if Jack comes back. 


End file.
